


Hold on to Letting Go

by leslie057



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Jancy-Centric, Jonathan + El + Will stuff, Long-Distance Relationship, Lots of Hopper-Byers Family Stuff, Love Letters, Minor joyce/hopper - Freeform, Missing Scenes, Moving, Post-Season/Series 03, Sibling Bonding, Swearing, bittersweet stuff, rated t for cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-07-31 06:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslie057/pseuds/leslie057
Summary: He would not forget her but had to let go of her.Begins with missing scenes from those three months and expands from there. About things coming together for El, Will, Joyce, and Jonathan.And about Nancy and Jonathan loving each other, separated or not.





	1. This house is not a home

**"The word without the act was nothing." -Marguerite Young, _Angel in the Forest_**

His footsteps are silent but unsteady when he comes to his front door. He ascribes his disorientation to the injuries he received a few days ago, but no matter how he makes _sense _of things, fear is what he’s feeling. What he’s always feeling, in some way or another. The control it has over him fluctuates, rising in disasters and falling after them, yet it doesn’t retire. Not ever, not really. 

It’s late. The time of night that coats everything in blackness. Places familiar in the daylight are shifting, turning to mazes so easy to get lost in. The deer are awake, feeding and searching, but not much else is. He avoids the woods he used to take walks with Will in; they’re the darkest. Tree branches stretching toward the sky do so leaflessly for the first time in a warm season, having been mauled by the Mind Flayer’s...proxy—a disgusting thing made of the _deceased _that he can’t get out of his mind. 

This time of night makes him worry about Nancy. He was with her a half hour ago, and it still does. But he doesn’t just concern himself with her. He left her because he felt his family wasn’t safe at home. With his paranoia at the helm these days, he has no choice right now but to check on them. If not for their sake, for his own. 

He goes through the motions of getting into the house—fitting a cold key into an old lock, cautiously twisting a knob to preserve quietness, and closing a door as soon as it opened because leaving it ajar for more than a second makes him anxious—but he doesn’t actually concentrate on what he’s doing. He won’t remember it at all.

He can detect it. He can detect his loss of patience, of rationality. Soundness of mind has raced way out of reach, like fine sand falling between his fingers. He never found difficulty focusing on anything until two years ago.

How are the others holding up? How is his mom—

“Hey,” he hears. A small, distressed voice that he knows. He’s _known._

He stands still, tired eyes looking into her glazed ones from across the living room. 

“Hey, mom.” The keys are set down (he doesn’t know where) and he limps to the sink. “Why are you up?” 

She sits up straighter on the sofa, weighing options and reciting sentences in her head. “Well, I was waiting on you,” she confesses.

He comes up to her, glass of water clinking against the coffee table as he sets it down in front of her. “Waiting?”

She stares at his offering, frustrated by it. Sometimes she wonders how weak everyone truly thinks she is and if she will equal fragility to them forever. Will anyone ever trust that she would get something to drink if she needed it? 

But this is Jonathan. And she is hurting. So it’s a little different.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “There’s something we…”

“Here,” he murmurs as he picks up the glass himself and tries to get it into her hands, about as zealous as Hopper used to be treating himself to beers every night. 

She huffs. Takes a quick drink to make him feel better. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I’ve needed to for a while.”

He already looks worried, brows drawn together and jaw set. She’s seen him like this many times before, sure, but not in a long time. He’d been so happy last month, retaining an air of placidity that made her feel good, too. Especially in the morning after being with Nancy (except when she made references to the girl’s visits, of course). 

“Oh. Okay,” he says once he’s hesitated for too long.

“Okay.” Her heart, it’s broken, but it’s going so fast right now. She thinks maybe if it struck and drummed her chest at any higher speed, it’d have to stop completely. But she will compose herself; there’s no running away from this. “Okay, I just...I need you to listen to me.”

He nods twice. 

“And not interrupt.”

Though most of the people she knows have interrupted her enough to last a lifetime, the request is unnecessary now. With him. Jonathan’s a listener, when he is asked to be and when he is not. All the same, he responds, “Whatever it is, I’m ready to hear. Okay?”

_Is he? _

“Alright.” It’s unfair that he doesn’t know already. But she needs to start small. Needs to cover certain things like stepping stones which _lead _to the important news. “My panic attacks have started up again,” she says. Being so careful. Careful with her words, her movements. Carefully trying not to cry. She doesn’t want him to see her as the delicate person she was when they first lost Will. 

His hands shake mildly as he scans her thin face for hints. Hints of illness or suffering too extreme to be part of what she’s supposed to be dealing with. _Supposed _to. As if she ever deserved any of this in the first place. He may not be the most grounded right now, but he has his priorities in an order he swears by—with family at the very top. Tonight, that means he wants to eliminate whatever has interfered with her healing. 

It’s a very callow thought; he knows grief can’t be dealt with so simply. Knows it comes in a panoply of terrible shapes and forms. 

The urge to fix a problem remains, nonetheless. 

“Jonathan?” 

He swallows hard. Ignores the knot that tightens between his ribs. “When...when did you start having more of them?” 

She looks up to the ceiling, messy braid falling off her shoulder. He holds back from moving closer to her, holds back from talking down to her. She’s not crazy, and she’s not young. _But she lost Hopper._ He can’t let that go. 

“It was just a few. That’s all…” She almost says _sweetheart_, then bites her tongue. “But, anyway. The first one was on Friday morning, when I woke up. They’re not that bad. I just...started to think. I started to think about what we’ve all been through. And where we’ll go from here.”

She pauses, and he takes the time to speak. “I can take you to the doctor. We can go tomorrow. You can start taking the meds that helped you last fall—”

“No!” 

Her firmness startles them both, and he stares at her—more than a little confused—as she pants softly and keeps her body facing forward. The dark television screen shows her their reflections. Or silhouettes, more like, but she thinks Will would still be able to make a skillful drawing of them by only studying it.

Her sons amaze her.

“No. I’m not...I don’t need to take _ medicine _right now,” she says and waves her hand around as if that’s expressive. “That’s not what I need,” she repeats herself, much quieter. Her throat burns, clogged up with spit now that her tears insist on falling. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” The confession is honest and maybe it’s the _way _he said it that stirs her. 

She decides to skip some stepping stones. The moment is here. She feels it. “I can’t live here anymore,” she says. Begins to shake her head. “This house, I…”

“Oh,” he speaks lowly. 

“We need to leave Hawkins.”

The next few moments go by without sound or action, reacquainting her with the sensation of suspended time she’s been experiencing lately and leaving him alone with his assimilation of an announcement that was expected from somewhere deep in his observant soul. 

He thinks he should be angry. Consider her selfish, ineffectual, or reckless.

It’s just not like that. Instead, a close relative of hope rushes through his veins, dousing the flame of sadness that began crackling in his chest at the thought of walking away from _everyone._ She’s finally doing something for _herself _—suddenly proactive in piecing her life back together, or starting a new one that’s much different and therefore better. Suddenly inclined to do what they should have done all those years ago 

“I know.” The divulgence stuns her a little. Exhibits how mature he is, not that she could forget.

He agrees. _He understands_.

She looks at him, shedding more tears rapidly. “What?” she asks. Not even for clarification, it’s just all she could think of to say. 

“I think we should leave, too.”

She listens to the ticking clock on the wall, wondering if it’s unsafe that she’s breathing at a faster pace than the second hand is going. “It...it might be far away, Jonathan,” she begins, soft timbre of her voice disappearing as she tries to keep her emotions at bay. “Where I wanna go. I don’t know any specifics yet,” she admits and wipes at her eyes. “It could take a while to sell the house, but…I’ve been trying to get it on the market for a while.”

_For a while_. He can’t believe she was considering this before Independence day. He thought all of this was about Hopper. “You...all this time, you didn’t want to live here?”

She shakes her head. 

He breathes out heavily. How long? How _long _has she wanted to go but stayed here _for them_? Knowing Hawkins was standing in her way of a better life, knowing she was somewhere she didn’t want to call home. Couldn’t call home. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

When she doesn’t reply, he turns to her. “It will be months, mom. Before we can leave. Are you gonna be okay?” He doesn’t need to remind her that _the house isn’t paid off yet. _

“I will. I promise. I...maybe keeping this from you was upsetting me the most. I don’t know. I think I’ll be fine. Now that this is a certain thing, I’m being honest, I will. It’s good knowing we don’t have to stay.”

“And we won’t,” he says. Leans forward to hug her. She twists to be able to reciprocate as his arms come around her, hand supporting her head. She holds onto his sides, wanting to save his shoulders from any more pain. 

“We’ll go anywhere,” Jonathan insists, “Anywhere you want.”

Heart pounding, eyes stinging, she hugs him tightly. Her appreciation left unsaid yet immeasurable. 

Somehow, he hugs her tighter. 


	2. Grieving interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter traces back to the first, beginning with what happened before Jonathan went home and was told everything.

**“Freeing yourself was one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another.” -Toni Morrison, _Beloved_**

“So what are you doing tomorrow? Are you guys busy with anything?” Nancy asks him, her hopefulness poorly concealed beneath the questions. 

For the past couple of days, his family’s free time has just been too scarce. Whether it be a little girl with psychokinesis trying to get settled in at their house or unnamed men showing up at their door equipped with questions about the fire and, worse, the chief’s enigmatic death—specifically his inability to get out of the Starcourt fire unlike everyone else—there is always some issue begging to be dealt with. 

All she wants is to fast forward. And not skip over these few _days_ but skip ahead to the part of their lives where things are good and _stay _good, and ease can be found, and her nightmares have withered away. Unless that part isn’t coming. 

He shifts, his bad leg straight and the other one bent as they sit on the carpet side by side. A skirt panel at the bottom of the sofa sways after he moves against it. “Actually...I need to take mom and El to the cabin at some point. We have to get her stuff, and...well, we have to get everything.”

“They’re going into the cabin again?”

“Yeah. I kept asking them if they were sure they wanted to. They’ll only have one last time there, and I thought they would want it to be when he was there, too, but I guess not.”

She hums, thinking, and her eyelids come down halfway, reducing the wall across from her to a blurry swatch of its deep orange color. Her head meets his shoulder naturally. Why is it that she could sleep like this for a hundred hours but barely slept for five last night? 

Slowly he shrugs away, saying, “Hold on, hold on. You’re hurting me.”

She recoils in a flash, as if she’d been shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine.” He begins to stand, and she hops up. Reaches out sheepishly to help him to his feet. 

“Hey, let’s...let’s go to bed,” she suggests. Her face is flushed by now, and she has no excuse for it. It’s not her fault they haven’t slept together since June. “I-I can go get an aspirin or something, if you want.”

The bulbs above their heads burn brightly, giving off light so warm it’s made her restive, giving off heat so strong it’s darkened the unexpected blush on her face. But it protects them from the murk of midnight beyond her living room’s windows, and that’s all they should really care about. 

“No, you don’t have to. I think…”

She waits for expression of the complete thought, but he stays quiet. “Are you okay? You look worried,” she finally comments. 

He glances down at the floor, then the unused fireplace, then the tall white uprights supporting the handrail of the stairs. Anything but her. “I’m not. I…”

“Will be, if you don’t go home?”

His eyes close for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” she locks arms with him, “I guess I can let you go.” 

“I promise I’ll stay soon.”

She nods and turns to face the kitchen. But before walking him out, she wants to talk to him about something. This may be her last chance if she doesn’t see him in the morning. “Hey, do you think you could do me a favor tomorrow?” she blurts out.

“A favor?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s nothing that will take long or anything. I was just wondering if...you could drive me to the cemetery.”

“The cemetery,” he breathes. Not questioning. Only saying it. Maybe to accept the invitation.

“Yeah. It’s...tomorrow’s her birthday,” she says, speaking low. And if her voice didn’t give away the resurfacing heartache, something else must have. She’s the guiltiest person in the world, and she’s not guilty of anything. 

“I wanna replace the flowers. The spring ones are probably dead and...if there are dead ones on her birthday, I—”

“Yeah. I can drive you. But it could be kind of late. Is three or four too late? I don’t know when we’ll finish getting El’s stuff.”

“No, that’s perfect. I’ll be here.”

Before a single second can pass, her face is being cradled in his hands, mouth being covered by his. His finger pushes on the soft skin of her jaw, and she gets a head rush. She’s convinced (just for a second) that parallel worlds and deadly creatures from those worlds do not exist at all. Convinced all that exists is the two of them. 

But it’s one of his short kisses. The type that lets you inhale, exhale, then that’s it.

And she hears running. Hears her brother running up the basement stairs in the unheeding way that implies he’s either panicked or annoyed or both. 

“Have you seen my Realistic, Nancy?”

She wipes her mouth discreetly, pressing her palms against the pockets on her shorts. “You don’t know where it is?”

He storms past them and tears a pillow from the chair in the corner, clearly stressed out. “No, no, I have shit for brains, and I’m looking for something I didn’t lose!”

“Hey, calm down.”

“No! I’ve never lost it for this long! Okay, I need it.”

Her arms cross over her chest, she wants to be patient with him like Jonathan always is with Will. She keeps in mind that that thing reminds him of El. “It’ll be fine. I’ll help you look tomorrow.”

Jonathan leans closer to her, rubbing her side gently a few times, “I have to go, okay?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow? Around four?”

“Four,” he repeats. He limps in the direction of the foyer before pausing. “Mike?” he says.

“What?” the younger teenager spits.

“I hope you find the walkie.”

* * *

The seventh of July, each year, without fail, drifts in like a vast cloud coming to obscure the sun and steals from her a part of the trust she has in herself. 

On this date, and a few others that she associates with Barbara Holland, there are a range of notions that surround her and make her quite nauseous, to be honest. The first among them is that she is selfish. Selfish for often ignoring her friend’s discomfort. She recalls, more than once throughout their friendship, pressuring her into situations that she really didn’t want to be in. 

The other thoughts involve her not knowing how to love, not knowing how to preserve relationships, not being able to perceive the breach between good and bad change, and a few others like those. But ever since Jonathan, she hasn’t been so insecure about herself. In fact, she’s certain he taught her how to better care for people because _ she cares so deeply for him _ and cannot _ help it_.

And anyway, Nancy understands that she would have been forgiven. 

Though, still, on the seventh of all the Julies for the rest of her life, she will understand herself to be the most tactless and undesirable person on earth.

* * *

The walk from his car to the headstone gives the illusion that they’re covering miles. 

His thoughts _ demand _to race on and on, a jumble of what-ifs and fears and the most repetitious, but disruptive, reflections. They’ve sent the waves of his mind chucking against his skull, sent any hopes of his deep into the drink. 

He usually has no trouble with, and is actually inclined toward, keeping things to himself. Maybe that’s true now, as solemnity has overtaken Nancy’s kind features, and he can’t imagine making her more miserable. Can’t consider fueling that regretful fire. 

However, carrying this news feels wrong. She will find out that he’s leaving. That moment will come. And as long as his secret stays one, stuck in a lockbox for only him to access, a skeleton in the closet that only he can find, he will be doing perfectly what she would never want him to: hide from her. 

All of that aside, they’re here to visit her dead best friend, and he can’t tell her this now. 

When she stops walking, it’s sudden, and he takes a few steps past her by accident before returning to her side. 

She was right; the peace lilies that stand in a small metal can on top of the stone are lifeless, hanging loosely over the container’s edge. She sets the new flowers on the ground softly and reaches out for the cup. Starts to pull the plants from it slowly and places those on the ground, too. 

They lie there, upstaged by their backdrop of bright, yellowish grass. 

The two of them kneel down, heavy and warm air giving rise to small ovals of sweat on each of their brows. She gets to work, pouring clean water from a bottle into the can. From observing her process, he gathers she has made more visits here than she can count. Her tanned arms move on autopilot, and the whole thing seems like a kind of therapy for her. 

“It’s still just so weird,” she speaks finally and examines one of the fresh flowers she brought. “A grave with no body.” 

He holds onto the bottle for her. “Yeah,” he says, eyes trained on the Eno River across from the graveyard. It glints in the natural afternoon light, bright and hypnotic. He has taken dozens of pictures of it before, he’s sure, and each time he photographed, it looked different. The water is rough today, murmuring as it rushes on, rinsing off everything it touches. He dares to turn away from it and to the girl beside him. It seems like there are violent currents in her, too. Like at any moment now, that storm inside her may send everything flying apart. And, strangely, it’s a beautiful emotion on her. She’s beautiful, the river’s beautiful, and he will have left them both by winter. Even fall is a possibility. What will there be to make images of in the next town? He tries to shake off his doubt and continues, “But it happens a lot. Not just when it’s a death like hers.” 

_ A death like hers._

Meaning one so bizarre it has to be lied about. One that exposes a world not to be seen or known. 

She appreciates his sentiment, at least. _ She’s not the only missing body_. “I know,” Nancy says. She takes the last fresh-cut violet and props it against the others in the can. 

Violets. Her mom told her they were a sign of loyalty. The irony is most definitely not lost on her, and haunts her, too.

“I wish things were different,” she explains, shoulders tensing. “Well, I guess that’s obvious,” she laughs cheerlessly with her head down. Then: “Imagine what it would be like to not know this place. I mean, sometimes I think it’d be better if we were all in the dark about...you know.” As she speaks, tears clip at her eyes. 

Her words prey on him. _ Not know Hawkins._ He won’t soon enough. Will she resent him for getting to abandon it before her? Again, he pushes his worries down. “_Y__ou_...wanting to be in the dark about something?” he tries, voice light. 

She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she relaxes her hunched shoulders, avoids his gaze. 

“Hey…”

She rises on her knees and swallows hard, trying to compose herself, then she’s lowering back down, nearly falling, and her hands press into the dirt as she finally starts to cry. Her gasps are loud. The force within her trying to fight her humanity is feeble, its power effete. He thinks she’ll never come to terms with the piece of sensitivity that lives in her. Not unconditionally. 

And maybe he won’t tell her about the move today. Maybe he couldn’t if he had to. 

Standing on his knees, he extends his hand to her. She leans back on her heels, brushing her own hand off, and reluctantly grabs hold of his. The sensation of the ridge of scarred flesh on his palm touching her skin is one she’s well attuned to. “I’m sorry,” she keeps saying. Who she’s apologizing to is left a mystery, but if it’s him, he doesn’t accept.

“Nance…you have to realize nothing’s your fault. Nothing is, where does that come from? I don’t know where you get that from.”

“I didn’t get...it’s not...it’s what happened.”

“It’s _ not _ what happened,” he lets go of her hand to sweep loose soil from her sundress, “everyone knows how much you cared about her. That means she did, too.”

Her nose is running, wetting her cupid’s bow. She’s not embarrassed for crying, not really, but she’s disappointed in herself. In the rawness of her old wounds. Jonathan seems so admirable in comparison, so unbroken. “I know what you’re saying, but coming from you, it-it doesn’t mean that much. Okay? I’m sorry. But you didn't know her. You can’t change that, you just didn’t. You don’t know what I did. I wish I didn’t, either.”

“I get it,” he assures her, “but I know you.” She wipes at her damp eyes and below her nose. His forehead presses to the side of hers, and her eyelids fall. Daylight warms them. For a second, she still sees the sun. Like looking through a translucent red shade. 

Her heart is aching. How can she be this happy, ashamed, and distressed all at once? 

“You can remember her. You always will, but you don’t have to live in guilt,” he says to her hollow, flushed cheek. “None of us do.”

“I know, but...I can’t make myself believe it. I can’t believe it, I don’t understand why.”

He backs away, unsure of what else he should say to her. On the opposite end of the yard, a woman pulls back the entrance gate. She walks with anything but purpose, as if she doesn’t know what she’s here for, and cautiously stops a few yards away from them. He observes her as she crouches down. Before her is a small sign on a stand. No real headstone, no bouquets on the ground, or statues. Only a name. 

He and Nancy don’t say anything to each other, or even share a certain look, but they understand equally. 

There are a lot of temporary set-ups around the graveyard, all for the _ flayed, _as they’d called them. 

The town had become a lot smaller over the week. 

“Hey, let’s...let’s go, okay?” he suggests.

It’s too soon to revisit their memories of Independence Day. They’d all grown susceptible to anxiety in the last couple of years, but the holiday marked the ruination of carefree days for them forever. 


	3. Trauma's haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i have to apologize for my so-slow-its-killing-me progress on this story. it has nothing to do with my passion for the characters, except that maybe im too passionate about them. im too precise, indecisive when it comes to writing, and that (coupled with my busy life as a student) keeps me trudging instead of walking in terms of my fanfics. no matter how much i love working on them.
> 
> anyway, here's chapter 3. a disclaimer:
> 
> -im not sure when hopper moved to new york (or when and if he served in the vietnam war) so lets just assume for this that he was still in town at the time jonathan was born
> 
> enjoy!

**“I’m becoming more of a vessel of memories than a person.” -Kaveh Akbar, _Calling a Wolf a Wolf_**

_ August 1967 _

** **

Evening comes, and she walks home with Hopper, prolonging her steps so that she can keep up. She was energized today (by what, she doesn’t know) and she hasn’t felt so awake since the baby entered her life, washing it in a deep happiness but still complicating things. Or maybe she’s the one causing problems.

** **

When they reach her house, wisps of shame rise in her. The grass is coarse and pale, the color of almonds. The columns on the porch have a dozen notches in them, struggling to hold the roof. _ This must look nothing like the house his girlfriend lives in. _ Though, she is younger. Unmarried, and she shares the place and payments with a few friends. _ Does he want to be her husband? _He goes there most nights, but it wouldn't be unlike him to date someone new in a month or so.

** **

She has her keys stuck between her teeth, boots tucked under her arm, paper bags hanging on her fingertips. The cider from earlier is still on her tongue, it seems, and she feels like she could faint.

** **

“Uh liddle elb, ob?”

** **

He grins wide, hands free, and burdens the flimsy door with his weight as he leans on it. “What’d ya say? Might need to speak up some, Joyce.”

** **

She separates her unpainted lips, spitting the key ring onto the porch and flashing a wry smile. “Give me a little help, dick.”

** **

He gives a contagious laugh, bending down to grab them, and twists the house key into the lock to let her in. She sighs as she pushes her way inside with her hip, stopping short when she hears noise coming from the hall. _ But there’s no car out front_.

** **

“You gonna let me come in or will, uh, Romeo find out and go all _ loco _ again?” he teases. 

** **

She ignores him, dropping everything in her arms onto the floor, and rounds the corner into the unlit hallway. She finds the first bedroom on the left, dark brows pulled close in confusion. She approaches the makeshift crib in the corner, a low cot with ladder back chairs on each end and wooden boards making a wall between them. A fleece blanket hangs over the unsanded wood, the only source of comfort there. If only she had been allowed to spend money on a real bed for him. 

** **

“What the fuck,” she whispers, unsettled. _ There’s no way he’s alone. _Her tiny baby—he was born three and a half weeks early—is squirming on the cot, eyes wet and nose red. 

** **

“What?” Hop asks, standing back of her now. 

** **

Again, she doesn’t respond, picking up her 6-month-old son out of the shoddy bed as he sniffles. “Oh, Jonathan,” she murmurs. 

** **

“Has he really been here by…”

** **

She turns around slowly, apprehension etched into her features. Jonathan grips at the collar of her jean jacket, touches the smooth ends of her hair. 

** **

“Okay, Joyce, where the hell is your husband?”

** **

She fights her instinct to start crying and brings her son close to her shoulder, using her free hand to push his thin, light hair away from his forehead. 

** **

“Joyce,” he repeats gravely. 

** **

“I _ don’t know_,” she says, more firm than him and in a way that almost stops him from arguing. Almost. 

** **

“Well,” he taps on the top of the crib, like he needs the distraction, “don’t you think maybe you should fuckin’ know?” 

** **

She moves around him and to the window, rolling its wand between her fingers to close the blinds. “I don’t have time for this,” she breathes and begins to rifle through the nightstand. Jonathan wriggles in her arms, coughing dryly. As she searches in the drawer, he grunts quietly, tugging on her collar again with urgency. He’s so small for his age, but his grip is strong, and she gives up on looking after a moment. She supports his head with her hand, letting him rest his face on her shoulder as he continues to cough. “I know,” she whispers and presses her nose to his head, “I’m so sorry. I know you feel bad.”

** **

Reluctantly, she looks up to Hop. “Will you...will you get the thermometer?”

** **

He nods once, pity floating in his blue eyes. She bounces her baby lightly, pacing back and forth along the wall. Hopper shuts the drawer after grabbing the digital thermometer and regards her as he stands. He detects doubt,_ panic_, in her expression. Like she’s come to the edge of a precipice and lost her balance. Even the kiss she presses to her infant’s shoulder looks like a goodbye. Like she’s afraid that he will vanish from her arms altogether. _ When’s the last time he saw tears in her eyes? _

** **

He passes the little white device to her. “So, is he, uh, talking yet or anything?” he says, unwilling to let her lapse into silence. He thinks she would truly cry. Make herself sick doing so.

** **

“Um,” she pauses while looking around the room and composes herself, “hold on, I need to lie him down.”

** **

As he follows her to the bedroom, she says, “He won’t talk. I don’t think it’d be normal for him to be saying anything you or me would understand. But still, I guess he should be making more sounds at this point. He just isn’t. He...well, you know, he cries. He’s good at that part.”

** **

She flips on the light as they walk in, and he lingers in the doorway for a moment. He doesn’t mean to think about it, but he makes the inappropriate realization that she has sex with her husband here. The ceiling fan is unmoving, leaving the warm air to smother him. 

** **

How Lonnie Byers ended up being the other half to Joyce Horowitz is, and has always been, an unsolvable riddle. 

** **

She lays her son on the bed and removes his cotton shirt. When the cold metal bulb of the thermometer touches his skin, he flinches and whimpers. He must already be cold, and she can see him shaking. 

** **

“Can I help?”

** **

“Yeah. I need him still.”

** **

He flumps onto the bed, hesitantly placing his large hands on Jonathan’s upper arms. He doesn’t press down at all, just tries to abate the hotness of the skin with his cool touch, and the baby clasps his hands together near his chin, kicking. 

** **

“Come on, kiddo,” he says, “you’re okay.”

** **

Joyce perches on the edge of the mattress and sticks the thermometer under his arm. While she holds it there, he kicks at Hop’s stomach and side.

** **

“Your son—ah, okay—he...he doesn’t like me all that much.”

** **

A slight laugh escapes her. “Don’t sweat it,” she strokes her baby’s torso, “he’s just not used to you yet.”

** **

He sighs, and for a while they just listen to Jonathan’s breathing, his coughs, and his rarely-used gibberish. 

** **

Suddenly, the device emits its shrill beep, shocking her out of her trace. She holds it in her palm and examines the number. _ 100.3. _“Well, he’s right under a fever,” she notes. As she pulls his shirt on him, she smiles. “You hear that? You missed it by a nose, little boy.”

** **

Hopper stands and glances at the doorway. “Hey, Joyce,” he says, his tone too dour. Too serious. “What are you gonna do about this?”

** **

Holding her baby against her chest, she chews the insides of her darkened cheeks. Her embarrassment eats away at her.

** **

“Joyce.”

** **

“_Stop _it.”

** **

“No! Byers left your 6-month-old _ by himself. _ With _ an infection. _I think someone needs to knock some fuckin’ sense into him.”

** **

“_My _ name is Byers. Stop acting like we’re in high school.”

** **

“Okay, why do you always have to do that? Don’t change the subject when all I’m trying to do is help you fix this before it gets even shittier.”

** **

Her lip twitches. “Listen to me, you don’t know what you’re talking about. He probably told me when he would leave and when I needed to be back. I probably wasn’t paying attention. I’m sure it’s my fault.”

** **

“Even if he _ did _ tell you, that means he left _ anyway _ when you weren’t back. God, when’d you get so passive?”

** **

She scowls at him, staying quiet this time.

** **

“You know what, fine. Let him get away with it. But if you loved that kid as much as it looks like you do, you’d do something. You’d threaten his _ life,_ I swear.” 

** **

She watches him walk to the door and pause. “Remember that Jonathan...he’s not gonna be like this forever. He doesn’t understand anything now, but he’s gonna grow up, and when he does, I hope he can handle knowing that his father couldn’t care any goddamn _ less _ about him.”

With that, he disappears from her sight.

** **

She meets her son’s irritated eyes. He opens his mouth and closes it, attempting to take a full breath. Mucus has wetted his philtrum and upper lip, so she takes a washcloth from the dresser and wipes his nose. He sneezes, and that develops into a coughing frenzy, and then he’s crying. He may not be running a fever, but he is hurting. _ Whose fault is it? _

** **

Later, when he has fallen asleep in her embrace, she hears the front door open and slam closed. In her head, she imagines it banging shut, pushing the jamb out of alignment a bit more, drawing it an inch further from the trim. Her house is probably not the only thing falling apart too soon. 

** **

“Joyce?” her husband calls. 

** **

She lays her baby in the middle of the bed and shuffles out of the bedroom, forcing a smile that will inevitably appear wan no matter how much she wants to be a tireless, diligent wife. The wife her parents told her she would never be after she, unwed and 19, conceived. 

** **

Pregnancy followed marriage, it didn’t precede. She had _ known _that. But they made it official the minute they found out about Jonathan, so she didn’t even show in her silky white wedding dress. 

** **

Being a reputable woman in Hawkins isn’t out of reach yet. A few years ago, she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. But she can't afford that at this stage. She can’t afford to not care. 

** **

“Hey.”

** **

“There you are,” he pulls a beer out of the fridge, “have a good day?”

** **

She catches his wrist. She’s not going to take it easy on him. 

** **

He smirks, hair gelled with Brylcreem hanging over his forehead. “What, I can’t have a drink?”

** **

“We need to talk about something.” 

** **

He moves his wrist, stretching his fingers to hold her hand as he maintains a lighthearted air. He gently shakes her hand, moving their arms down until she lets go. “One sip, okay?”

** **

She rolls her eyes and sits at the table. Lonnie tips the glass bottle back. His hand looks strong around it, and when he’s done, amber drops dribble from the corner of his attractive mouth. 

** **

“Can we talk now? I mean, can you talk to me, and we have a real conversation?” 

** **

He pulls out a chair, spins it around, and plants himself. “Yeah, yeah. I can. Damn, Joyce. You feel okay?”

** **

“When I got home today,” she swallows, “no one was _ here_. Alright? Our _ baby _ was here, and no one else was. Jonathan was by himself, and he was coughing and shaking and sick and I...what was going through your head? I mean, really. What the _ hell _ were you thinking?”

** **

“Oh, no, that—”

** **

“Wait, _ no_. Never mind what you were _ thinking_, what the fuck were you _ doing_? What was so important that you just completely took your attention away from him? _ My son_. You left him alone on that stupid fucking _ cot_, like he was nothing. And, you know what, I really don’t know why we have that shitty thing when we should just buy him a real bed. I mean, what, we can’t afford that but you can spend money on a new case of beer every week—”

** **

“I was just in the yard!”

** **

“And I’m not saying we should blow our money or anything, but you know, it’s his _ bed._ It’s important, and I don’t know what it says about us that we won’t spend on him—”

** **

“I was here! I’ve been here! Joyce…”

** **

She puffs out a breath and shifts in the hard kitchen chair. She feels herself grow small, her blood chilling as quickly as it got hot. Her fires never used to be so easily extinguished. “But...but the car, I…” 

** **

“In the shop, remember? Harvey told me he’d fix it up, no charge. Listen, Jonathan fell asleep, so I went out back to mess with those split clapboards. Poor kid. I know he’s not feeling good.” 

** **

“Why didn’t you come in? Didn’t you hear him crying?”

** **

“Yeah. And I also heard you come in,” he smiles, “I was about to check on him when you got home, but I figured you had it covered. He likes you better, anyway.” 

** **

She sets her chin in her palm and stares at a point past him. Contrition has whitened her face, yanked her stomach too far down. This was ridiculous of her. “God, I’m sorry,” she whispers and closes her eyes. 

** **

He stands, swigging his beer. “It’s fine. And, hey, we’ll buy the kid a bed soon.” 

** **

She feels him come up beside her chair, get on his knees. Cold, wet kisses are dropped onto her neck. 

** **

“Was that Jim I heard with you earlier?” he asks, passing his tongue over her skin. 

** **

“Uh, yeah. He dropped by Julia’s this afternoon to give her a present. He said he’d walk here with me. You know, she only lives a street over, so it’s not far.”

** **

His hand lands on her shoulder, heavy and commanding. “Yeah?”

** **

An uncertain smile adorns her face. “Yeah. Did you see what she gave me?”

** **

“I didn’t,” he says and pulls her to her feet. Hands pressing against the cheap table on either side of her, he leans forward.

** **

“It’s all of her old clothes from when she lived in Topeka. You know, this way, maybe I’ll be able to get something past my hips.”

** **

“I remember when she got back. I hope to God you look better in them than she did,” he snickers. 

** **

“Hey,” she dodges his kiss, “that’s not nice. Besides, it was Kansas. All she ate was burgers. The only reason I look thinner than she did is because she’s even shorter than me.” 

** **

“Okay, well,” he grips the bottom of her miniskirt, “The clothes ought to fit you better than this short shit. Don’t wear any more of this fuck-me stuff around Jim again, please.”

** **

She furrows her brow. His request reeks of envy and cynicism, but his expression tells her it’s all a game. He’s being witty. He’s protecting her and wants her for himself. _ Jealousy equals love. _

** **

So, relinquishing her offense, she tastes his tongue and doesn’t pull back to look at him again. 

** **

It works in her favor, a conscience divided. Two entities working in anything but tandem, and she has taught herself how to only hear one clearly. When he lays her down, the whisperings of that dominant voice inside never cease. They supply a stable, reassuring song to play throughout the night. _ You chose one another. He loves you. Do you see? Look how much attention he gives you. He could be making love to anyone, but he chose you. _

** **

It was easy to keep him under the alias of some illusory man. A soul that was protective like him but could be free from his faults. 

** **

It wasn’t like she could survive without him. As that overbearing voice often reminded her, _ Jonathan needs a father_.

** **

_ Not this one_, the meeker mouthpiece of her mind would say. Only then, her heavy desperation would block out its every word. 

** **

Dangerous desires were better off silenced than confronted.

* * *

In the days following the graveyard visit, his ability to reason flickers like a low flame, almost blowing out again and again, stifled by tension. His head is a faulty cage for the disorder within: familiar presence of doubt and worry, unfamiliar feeling of an unraveling rationality. 

He is okay with the move. That’s what he said, and he can’t not keep his word. In fact, he hadn’t lied, but with each minute he becomes more afraid that pulling up stakes will inspire more problems than it can solve. 

“—not listening to us. Jonathan?”

He looks up quickly, back against the oven. His mom’s soft eyes widen from her seat at the kitchen table as she nods toward the stretch of counter behind him.

He searches for the trouble and finds nothing, instead letting his eyes settle on the window, sun warming his skin. Streams of light have permeated the room and called attention to the fine overlay of dust on the glass, somehow permitting a quality of peace to this house that sits just outside the heart of “hell.” 

He used to think it was hell, too. An assemblage of tidy white houses and crumbling ones—nothing in between—and marquee boards with missing letters that no one could be bothered to replace and a rigid social structure that meant you were either worth everyone’s time or worth nothing. Hawkinsians swore by helping every neighbor until the _ wrong _neighbor needed help. 

He found it to be traditional in a way that his younger self recoiled from completely, interested in David Bowie of _ all _ musicians and exasperated at the prospect (implausible as it was and is) of being a farmer or salesman. Traditional, and big on legacy. It wasn’t what you did for the town, rather what you did and what your parents did and what your grandparents did and how _ humble _ the beginning of that story was. It was how many changes your blood could be traced to that, when made, signaled nothing in the community had changed it all. 

He still holds onto some of those judgements, however cynical they are. 

But as far as the notion of home goes…

It wouldn’t matter what Hawkins was. If it had been a refuge for them all along, the quiet place it wanted so badly to be whose events were only as exciting as its old-world charm. Or if it had been _ trauma’s _ haven, only worth going to if you had a way out. If it had been peaceful, didn’t know bloodlust, and hadn’t met fear. If it was even _ more _ dangerous than it already is. If it actually _ was _ in hell, situated along the dark water of River Styx, and Persephone served drinks at the Hideaway.

If he was with his family, it would be where he belonged. Where he would always belong and never want to leave. 

Except...

He loves someone else now. He loves her more than he can understand and in a way that aligns with how he’s loved mom and Will, in a way that he knows could be the death of him if they were ever threatened. And if she’s stuck here, and his family leaves, does that mean he belongs in two separate places? 

How do you manage belonging in two places? 

“You know you’re burning our over easies,” Will says simply. 

The information doesn’t register. He stares at his brother, brow furrowed. “What?” he breathes. 

“The eggs, Jonathan,” El offers, lowering her voice to a pitch that wracks his nerves. Like she knows exactly what he’s thinking about and sympathizes. _ She can’t actually read minds, can she? _

He apologizes, taking quick action to get the pan away from the hot surface of the stovetop. As he flips the corresponding switch to the burner and scrapes the stiff white pockets onto a plate, he bites his tongue to dull the sharp ache in his head. “Let me try one more time,” he says.

“Wait, wait, wait. No one said anything about one more time. Gimme that,” Joyce insists. She reaches up for the plate, and he doesn’t argue. “We like over medium, too.”

Will gives in, hesitantly cutting into one of the eggs as he shares with his mother.

“You’re sure you don’t want to eat, sweetheart?” she asks Eleven, who pulls methodically at the threads of her shorts. Both of them wear a fatigued expression, girlish pink drained from their faces and the corners of their mouths made tighter. It’s hard to smile these days, but at least Joyce carries on, attempting to keep her emotions at bay with bare conversations like these ones. She knows it’s because she’s in a bit of denial, but she can’t let go of the remnants of hope that are somehow inside her. Not when she’s so close to falling apart.

“No. I want to wait. Until lunch. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I was...just making sure.” 

El’s head remains bowed, and beneath the table she scrapes her skin at the base of her cuticles. Peeling back small strips of skin until bright red stripes surround her nails, she’s learned, creates a physical pain sufficient to erode (or at least distract her from) the hurt that’s not so tangible. If anyone has noticed, they haven’t called her out yet. When it comes down to it, none of them actually have any sensible coping mechanisms to recommend.

Jonathan wonders if she will go to school. He and his mom don’t talk much about what the future holds, but he suspects she has some type of plan. Loose and maybe bad, but a plan. The sheer amount of unanswered questions he has makes him woozy. He doesn’t know where they’ll live or go to school or get jobs or how in _ hell _ things will go if they catapult this human lab experiment into society, expecting her to adapt. On one hand, he thinks that she, with days upon days of homeschooling, could catch up enough to take some low level classes for high school. He knows how smart she is despite her childhood, how fast she can pick up on things. On the other hand, he can’t begin to try and comprehend the logistics of getting her ready. It would be grueling and scary and...people can be _ mean._ They usually don’t understand the power of their words on others, and that would include even her. Her whose wounds are deep and raw and jagged.

“I’m gonna go, mom, okay?” he says later that morning, already at the door. He can’t remember going so long without being employed somewhere, and soon there will be a lot more costs to pay than they’re accustomed to—costs both before and after they move away. His first option is the drug store. He can’t sell medicine to anyone, but stocking there would pay well over minimum wage.

She turns her attention to him and catches the way his gaze lingers on Will and El. Even in the doorway of this tiny house, looking at a family that has increased by one, he seems limitelessly _alone. _Even seventeen years ago, when he (undeveloped and sick) coughed himself awake while his dad was outside, he was alone.

She will tell El and Will the news today, and she owes it to Jonathan to do so when he’s not home. He shouldn't have to witness complaints that he has long been too exhausted to make.


	4. Everything will be fine

**“It will seem impossible to take the first step. But on the second step, since you already did one, you know you can take another. Then another and another. Before long you will have walked into your new life.” -Laila Ibrahim, _Paper Wife_**

He gets the drugstore job effortlessly.

** **

“Yes,” the manager—a jaded, middle aged woman with an empathetic quality and fading blondes and a cigarette on her ear—says suddenly. “Whatever you’re willing to do for us, yes.” 

** **

He breathes out as the relief flows through him, warm and syrupy and incongruous with the rest of his emotions. He gives her the generic application that he’d grabbed from the storefront only a day before, when he couldn’t bear another minute of not making any money. The place is on the other side of town, much further than Melvald’s, but he’ll be thankful to get anything.

** **

“Well, I’m only seventeen, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

** **

“Uncertified teenage boy would make a helluva replacement for our pharmacist, I think,” she smiles.

** **

In his reserved way, he laughs with her, newly wild mind (though it’s been off-kilter for a while) drawing a strange parallel between the outsider and his mother. Rarely has he ever considered that anyone in Hawkins could be like her. Like any of them. In bitter hindsight, he shouldn’t be this sparing with his trust. It’s not like he’s ever had someplace else to compare this town to. 

** **

“No, I’m just kidding. But...our best cashier, we lost him. Was in that awful Starcourt mess. Think you could take his place at the register?”

** **

That word. _ Starcourt_. As it resonates in his ears, he feels his throat constrict. Ghost of a python wrapping itself tight around him. Resemblant of the way his boss’s, or ex boss’s, hands held his neck a few days earlier. The precise reality is: he’s not in good shape right now, surges of pain flashing through him often. But it doesn’t compare to the nonphysical damage. Inside, his nerves are frayed, and the absence of hope is like a cavity in him. A black hole. 

** **

His heart lolls at the memories. Of that garish building which morphed into a deathtrap. He had grown nauseous from his surroundings, from the eerie pink glow, still dizzy from body aches and sore from his injuries. They fought as well as they could against that bloody mass (bigger than it had been at the cabin, obviously so much bigger than at Memorial Hospital). All the while, he knew it was really up to the telekinetic fourteen-year-old who had wandered into the boys’ lives all those months ago. Without her, they would be ash. Every one of them. 

** **

He never thanked her for it. Hasn’t thanked her for coming to Nancy’s rescue that night. He doesn’t know what he could say. _ Thank you for salvaging half of me._

** **

“Everything okay, honey?”

** **

He refocuses. Comes back down to earth, nodding his head slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s fine. I can do the register.” 

** **

“Okay.” She smiles once more and pulls the stubby pencil out of her hair.

** **

“And...do you think I could work two shifts?”

** **

Wide eyes study him. “Out of our four?”

** **

“Yeah. Uh, I can’t do overnight, but I can work 5am to 11am and then...again from 5pm to 11pm.” 

** **

To say it is exhausting in itself.

** **

Her delayed response is: “Okay, yeah. If you say so.”

** **

The following afternoon, he pulls the polo on over his henley and convinces himself that it never even _ touched _ one of the flayed.   
  
  


* * *

“Hey, you don’t need to explain. It’s just a bummer, you know?”

** **

She has her legs tucked in close to her chest, seated on the wicker chair beside her bed. She plays with its torn material, curving the loose strips on the arm into curls. For five minutes he’s been fussing with her record player, though it hasn’t spun in forever and she didn’t ask him to fix it. He always does this: creates a diversion for himself if he doesn’t feel like talking.

** **

“I’ll miss you,” she adds.

** **

When the sentiment leaves her mouth, something snaps off in him. Anyone else might not notice, but she’s watching him closely. Watching for the subtlest twitch of his mouth, or for a shadow to fall over his eyes, calling out to her without even him permitting it to. 

** **

Discreetly, she leans over and takes the amateurish Polaroid off her nightstand. Sneaks a lone picture of him, backlit in the window seat with his large hands on her player. The camera releases its signature _ kachick_, whirring, and she knows she’s been caught. 

** **

He picks up his head right after. His creased brows indicate objection, not that she would expect anything less.

** **

“Don’t do that,” he mumbles.

** **

“What? Now that you’re working half the day, I’m gonna need _ something _ to remember you by.” 

** **

He huffs. It’s melodramatic. Only the people he loves can really make him get like this. “You’re not gonna forget about me because of a job,” he argues and tries to balance the tonearm. 

** **

“You’re right, I could never forget you.” 

** **

He hunches, and the fleck of patience she was sustaining deserts her. “So what’s the matter?”

** **

“Nothing.” 

** **

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it.” 

** **

“Yes, I am.”

** **

“So you _ are _ lying.”

** **

“_No_,” he insists. 

** **

She’ll give it to him: he’s persuasive when he’s moody. There’s an edge to him that can be almost acidic, honed mostly by an excess of questions. Or questions in general. It’s in the handful of devices he has for shutting her up, but she’s in step with him today and twice as stubborn. 

** **

This isn’t about something she did. This is about him needing condolence, unwilling to ask for it. She can see it in his bad posture. His sluggish movements.

** **

She rises out of her chair. “Put that down.”

** **

“I’m not _ done_,” he near snarls.

** **

“I don’t care.”

** **

To her surprise, he picks it up and holds it in his lap. She sits down next to him. 

** **

He looks conflicted, feelings fixed in haze. His expression isn’t quite a squint, or a pout, but something in between. She rests her head on his shoulder and hugs his waist. “What’s the matter with you?” she asks. Keeps an easy cadence so as not to annoy him.

** **

He stops his work on her Crosley but predictably says nothing. The sheer curtains billow out in front of the open window and brush against their backs. He closes his eyes like he’s trying to memorize his surroundings. 

** **

“Is this about everything that happened? Or maybe something new? Is it...that we killed people?”

He laughs dryly, grimly. Nothing about the question is funny, but it is _ indeed _ ridiculous. “Please don’t remind me. Ever.”

** **

“Well, what is it then?”

** **

He hesitates again, evaluating this fatal secret of his. Determining its importance and what might make him feel worse—her own reaction to it or the way she’ll ice him out if he doesn’t tell her. And would she ever. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

She loosens her grip on his waist a bit, angling her head downward. Slides gentle lips across his shoulder over his shirt. Her unstyled hair falls in her face. “This is pretty serious, huh?”

** **

“Yeah, Nance.”

** **

“You’re...kind of scaring me here.” 

** **

He forces a shallow breath and replaces the record player at his side.

** **

“Come on, I gotta know.”

** **

He drops his head for a moment, but nods afterward. Caught between his teeth is his lip, chapped and somewhat shaking. His leg bounces persistently, as it always does when he’s uncomfortable. _ What the hell is going on? _

** **

“Do you remember the other night, before we went to the churchyard? I was getting the worst feeling then, like something was wrong. It’s why I went home.”

** **

“Yeah, who cares? I wasn’t mad at you for that, you know that. Where’s this _ going_—”

** **

“When I got home, my mom was awake. Waiting for me, and she never stays up if she has an early shift in the morning. She seemed panicked, and...then she started _ talking _ about her panic attacks coming back, so I guess that makes sense. I don’t know. She’s always been nervous. She obsesses over things, which I know I do too. You’ve said that to me. But she seemed different. Not just nervous, but scared. Like she needed something to change. I started to think she could get medicine for it, go to a doctor, but the pills she was given last year actually made her feel worse. It could have just been—”

** **

“Jonathan, slow down,” she picks up her head, “you don’t have to say it all at once. I’m listening.”

** **

“Sorry. I’m sorry. But she talked to me about something. She was so. Worked up. She finally told me that…” 

** **

She leans into him. 

** **

“She told me that she can’t live here anymore. So. We have to leave. We’re _ going _to leave. Leave Hawkins, I mean.”

** **

She stares at his profile, skin chilling with a new rush of air from outside. Her impulse is to question him. Feign confusion and ask what neighborhood they’ll go to. If they’ll stay in Roane County. But somehow, she understands. Somehow, she knows exactly what this is. 

** **

Even so, she couldn’t have expected it. 

** **

She drops her chin back down to his shoulder. 

** **

“What else did she say?” she murmurs. 

** **

“Not much. Just that...she’s been trying to get the house ready for sale for a while. It surprised me.”

** **

“So it’s not about Hopper.”

** **

“I don’t know.” 

** **

She’s becoming lightheaded, nose pressed to his neck in something like despair.

In a lot of ways, she is logical. Sensible, never sensitive. It’s how she passes herself off as brave. And makes herself seem badass. All it takes is censoring out her fear, and then she can hold a gun steady. But she can’t always be that girl. Every once in a while, she gives up her pretense and says what’s in her head _ right _ when it emerges. Impulse chosen, censorship forgotten. 

** **

She can see it coming now.

** **

“Where will you—_when _ does she think you’re going?” 

** **

“She hasn’t figured any of that out yet. It’s just...if I know her, it’ll be far. It seems like she needs far.”

** **

“Yeah, but when? That shit takes forever, doesn’t it? What about school?” 

** **

“I don’t know.” 

** **

She scoffs. “You have to talk her out of it.”

** **

“What? _ No_.” 

** **

There it is. She lets go of him. 

** **

“Come on, it makes no sense. You just told me she’s not okay, that she’s worked up about everything. Even if you did leave, how would that make her better? You could go to another _ country_, and that wouldn’t change what we know is real. Why does she think it would solve _ anything_? Your brother would be crushed. Mine too. _ Me _too. I don’t get it, Jonathan. At all. And I hate that you’re talking about it like it’s happening.”

** **

“Why _ wouldn’t _it happen?” he says, a defeated strain in his voice. “I’m not even the one making the decision.”

** **

“So you disagree with her.”

** **

“No.”

** **

“Why _ not_?”

** **

“Because I wouldn’t. I can’t, I can’t not be on her side. It’s been too long.”

** **

“What are you talking about?” she asks, correcting her volume only at the last second.

** **

“You don’t know how she feels, and I don’t either. But I’ve seen her _ lose her mind _ before. And if she thinks moving away will help at _ all_, then I’m not angry. And I’m _ not _going to talk her out of it.”

** **

She avoids his gaze like it could burn her, a suspicion of jealousy swirling in her chest while she knows it’s unwarranted. (What the hell is she jealous of?) But it’s starting to sound like he wants to go, and though she’s praying for composure, her temper lasts. 

** **

“I understand that much. Except it _ won’t _ help, and you’d just be running away. But I guess you don’t care. About anything here.”

** **

“You’re an idiot if you think I don’t.”

** **

“Did you just call me an idiot?”

** **

He forces breath through his nose, brazen about his frustration. “When have I ever said anything like that about you?”

** **

With that, she bites her tongue. No one hates arguing more than him, and even when he’s angry, he doesn’t lose control over himself like she tends to. He never calls her names. He doesn’t put his hands on her, or scream, or tell her to go to hell. He’s all defense. 

** **

But then, she ends up on the other side of a partition. 

** **

“Exactly,” he mutters. “Don’t twist my words.”

** **

She frowns, spirit crumpling as he ever so slightly angles his body away from her. And from the place of rage, something tamer emanates. After all, the only thing inducing anger in her is the concept of him being gone. “I didn’t mean to. I just...you can’t go; I don’t want you to go.”

** **

“I know, and...I never thought I would have anything to miss here. But this is not for forever. It’s _ not _ forever. I mean, we’ll turn 18 this year. Last I checked, you don’t have to live at home after you’re 18.”

** **

God, why hadn’t she thought about that? Why does she have such tunnel vision, whereas he sees a bigger picture? She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to extend her short fuse. If only she were _ calmer_. 

** **

“Jonathan,” she whispers.

** **

“You don’t have to understand it. But I really need you to accept it. Because if you’re seriously asking me to make some sort of _ choice _ between you and my family, I don’t think you’re gonna like my answer.”

** **

It’s difficult to hear—_I can’t choose you_. Yet, he’s right. Would she rather him defy the one person who has lost the most in these past few years? Would she rather him talk her out of the move and her (their) life proceed hellishly? Settle on being the catalyst for his mother’s grief, stretching the woman’s decency thin, when she herself has collected fantasies of leaving town all throughout adolescence. 

** **

What is _ wrong _ with her? Joyce Byers isn’t _ crazy. _She’s just. As fucked up as they all are.

** **

She turns sharply. “I don’t want you to make a choice.”

** **

“Then what do you want?”

** **

“It doesn’t matter,” she touches his hand, “this is about you. Okay, I’m mad, I guess. But not at you. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have _ reacted. _Reacted this way.”

** **

“Nancy, you can have a reaction. But you can’t make me feel guilty like this again. You can’t make me feel guilty for a decision that’s not mine.” 

** **

Though his warning is grave, she can feel the partition beginning to fall. His long fingers spread over her hip in light strokes after she skeptically scoots closer to him. “I won’t,” she assures. 

** **

“My mom isn’t doing this to hurt anyone.”

** **

She feels a stinging wetness loom in her eyes and wills herself to stiffen. 

** **

“Come here,” he says. Faintly coarse hands come in contact with her neck in the unexpectedly soft way that isn’t _ as _unexpected anymore. His nose nudges her first, then he brushes a too-chaste kiss to her lips. 

** **

It makes her heart beat differently nevertheless. 

** **

“We gotta stop doing this.”

** **

“Yeah.”

** **

“But, I was wrong last time. This was your turn.”

** **

“What am I gonna do when you leave?”

** **

He tilts his head, uncertain expression doubting her fragile mien. “Live, probably.”

** **

“Don’t be so sure.” 

** **

“I’m serious. Everything’ll be fine.” 

** **

She looks down, tracing invisible lines from his wrist to his knuckles. “I won’t have anyone to talk to.”

** **

“Well, neither will I.” 

** **

It’s a familiar situation, in a way. Before high school, she never really had a group of friends. She had a _ best _friend. A single person to invest trust in, to spend time with, to shop for bell-bottoms with even if they were both too short to wear them and later ask for rides in a tiny blue Volkswagen. 

** **

The problem with having a _ best _anything is: when it goes away, you’re left with practically nothing. 

** **

_ God, she doesn’t want him to go. _


End file.
